


Only a Memory

by zebraljb



Series: Tis the Season [31]
Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Amnesia, Gen, POV First Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-31
Updated: 2018-12-31
Packaged: 2019-09-30 21:22:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17231426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zebraljb/pseuds/zebraljb
Summary: PROMPT - your earliest memorySo, this is a weird one...almost like a character study of Harry with some backstory I made up for him. There's no real romance here, just a man trying to figure things out.





	Only a Memory

ONLY A MEMORY

 

They asked me my earliest memory today. That was easy. It’s being on my father’s shoulders at Royal Ascot. He’d removed his top hat, which was only a bit smaller than I, and neatly deposited me on his shoulders so I could see the pretty ponies. Mother yelled at him and said he’d wrinkle his coat, but he said he didn’t care. Harry wants to see the horses, he said, and so he shall.

Father took me everywhere, showed me everything. I remember it well…Mother constantly berating him for spending so much time with me. She said it was behavior unbecoming of an earl, not that I knew what an earl was or why she called my father one. I simply knew that dear Papa brought me into his world and kept me close by his side. 

He took me on long rides in the country, seated carefully before him on his favorite horse. We would picnic in the woods and he’d teach me about plants and flowers and animals. Our favorites were the butterflies. When I was five, I called them “flying paintings,” and he said it was the smartest thing he’d ever heard anyone say. He bought me books about them, and he’d painstakingly teach me the Latin terms, explaining that once I was a big boy in school, I could study Latin on my own. I didn’t care about being a big boy in school. I only cared about spending time with my precious Papa.

An adult butterfly has an average lifespan of two weeks or less. My Papa’s was forty-five years.

 

They asked me what I remember after Papa died, or if I remembered HOW he died. Of course I remember…it was an automobile accident. He’d driven into town to retrieve the post because he’d ordered a few things, including new books about butterflies. I was home from school, fifteen years old, and still as enamored of the flying paintings as ever. Someone came flying from the other direction, a group of young men a bit older than me out for a joyride. They drove Papa off the road and into a tree. He died instantly.

I remember life changing after that. Mother did not allow me to go riding in the woods. I needed to focus on school, she said, because I was the only child and I would be in charge. I wasn’t sure what I’d be in charge of, exactly, since that was always Papa’s domain. We didn’t talk about real life. We talked about butterflies and animals and the natural world. I’d often thought Papa used me as a reason to escape…escape his responsibilities, and even escape my mother now and then. 

And now he’d eternally escaped, and left me alone.

 

They asked me what I remember after university. I gave them a silly look, because it was a silly question. I’m still in university, although most of my classes are advanced placement; I’m graduating in the spring. I’m going to be a lepidopterist, just as Papa and I planned.

 

I’m still a little confused as to why I’m in this place. It’s almost like a cell, with padded white walls and very little furniture. They’ve given me my butterflies, though…books and art supplies and a nice magnifying glass to study them through. The handsome man, they call him Tequila, is very nice, but I like Ginger better. She doesn’t seem to want to study me like the rest do. She’s just very nice, but seems sad. Sad that I don’t know the right answers to their questions. They say they can’t let me go, and that’s fine. The only place I have to go to is Mother’s, and I don’t like to be there if I can help it.

I can tell by their accents that they’re American, although the two men who burst into my room talking like they know me are most definitely British. The smaller one, the man my own age, he tries to hug me, which was a bit scary. The older man, the bald one, he simply shook my hand and asked a few questions. I wish I did know them, because their voices remind me of home. 

 

They tried to drown me today. They SAY they weren’t trying to drown me, but really…why in the world would a pipe conveniently burst but only in my room? My supplies were ruined, my books were ruined, and my clothes were soaking wet. Ginger came in to apologize, with the bald British man. I accepted her apology, of course, because it’s what cultured people do. But now I’m frightened. Just a bit. Who do they think I am that they felt the need to drown me?

 

Someone knocks on my door and I look up. I finally have everything just right in my new bedchamber and I really prefer not to be disturbed. “Yes?”

“Hello, ‘arry. Might we have a chat?”

It’s the young one, the attractive one. He has a cheeky grin and beautiful eyes. I blush when I think about that. No one knows that’s what I think deep down inside, about men. “Yes, of course,” I say politely.

I like this young man. He’s obviously of a lower class, but he dresses impeccably and he seems very kind. He also seems to like me very much. If he’d have gone to university with me, perhaps we might have been friends. Only at school, though; Mother would not have approved of me being friends with someone like him. Papa never cared about class differences, however, and neither do I. “I’m sorry they ruined your pictures,” he says. “You draw quite well.”

“It’s from memory.” I smile up at the walls. “My father and I spent a lot of time in the woods looking for butterflies.” I look at him. “Did you do that sort of thing with your father?”

“No. He died when I was young.” He watches me carefully. “Ya knew him, ya know.”

“How?” I ask. “We’re the same age, you and I.”

“Of course.” He rubs at his face and briefly looks disappointed. “M’sorry.” I shrug. “Grew up in the city, never had tha chance to look fer butterflies much. Like dogs, though.”

“I always wanted a dog,” I say fondly. “Mother was allergic, so Papa didn’t even have hunting hounds at home…he kept them somewhere else.”

“What would you name a dog, if ya had one?” The young man asks. 

“Perhaps Rex, or King,” I suggest. “Noble names.”

“Oi, c’mon, ‘arry, ya gotta do better than that! Think of a fun name…a name fer a dog you’d love, not just have around.”

I look into his attractive face and something twitches in my stomach. The way he looks at me, like I’m so very lost and all he wants is to find me. “Well, how about…” I stretch my imagination. “Mister…Pickle. That’s a fun name.”

“Yeah, it is.” He looks as if he’s won a prize. He squeezes my leg and I thrill at the touch. I want his hands on me, I realize. They feel so warm and familiar. “Do…do you have a dog?”

“No.” He looks devastated. “I did, a pug named JB. He was…he died in a bad accident.”

“I’m so very sorry,” I say, instinctively putting a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sure he was a wonderful dog.”

“He was my best friend. Had two best friends, really…lost them both recently.” He stands up and I see tears in his eyes. “Hope ya get yer dog someday, ‘arry.”

“Yes…and again, I’m sorry for your loss.” I watch him walk out the door.

 

A puppy! He brought me a puppy! It’s so dear, and I’m to keep for always. I bet he would love to go out in the woods with me…I could teach him how to follow the butterflies but never startle them. I…

“Do you think I should shoot him?” The young man asks suddenly, his voice cold as he points his gun at the dog’s head. 

“Are you quite mad?” I yell, scrambling away to keep the puppy safe.

“What? What’s the problem?” He chases me around the room, cornering me.

“No! You can’t!” I yell. I desperately wish for Tequila, Ginger, someone to come save us.

“What?”

“No, you’ll have to shoot me!” I shout.

“What? Shoot you? Oh, I will shoot you,” he yells back.

“No one’s sick enough to shoot a puppy.”

“What about you, ‘arry? You were sick enough ta shoot a puppy. Do ya remember?”

I stare at him in shock, then look down at the puppy. I look back up again and see butterflies, millions of butterflies flitting about the room. My head starts to pound and I hide my face in my arm for a second. “It…was a blank.”

“Yes, ‘arry, yes!”

“It was a fucking blank!”

“That’s right, ‘arry, it was a blank.”

“I would never hurt Mr. Pickle!”

“YES, ‘arry!”

“He lived up to a ripe old age, and died of pancreatitis.” I look down at the puppy in my arms. “You’re…not Mr. Pickle.” I look at the young man…no. I know his name. I know his name, I know mine. I know why I know him. I know his father’s name, the father whom I’d carelessly allowed to die. “Hello, Eggsy.”

“Hello, Harry.” Eggsy puts his arms around me and squeezes us both tight. 

“Eggsy,” I whisper, the embrace and smell of him all too familiar.

 

As we fly home to England on the Kingsman jet, I look at Merlin, stoic and calm and brave, sleeping with his mouth open and a bit of drool forming at the edge of his lips. I look down at the boy sleeping with his head against my shoulder, his hand holding my knee as if he cannot bear to think of losing me again. I’m not a lepidopterist, I’m a Kingsman agent. I might not have fulfilled the dream my Papa had for me…but I’ve worked hard to protect the world, and have these two dear friends to show for it.

The flying paintings will have to go on without me.

**Author's Note:**

> I would like to thank everyone who's come along for the ride of my prompts for the last few months. I'm going to take a break for a bit, but if you come up with something you'd like me to think about, please contact me on Tumblr or Dreamwidth as zebraljb. 
> 
> Thank you and Happy New Year!


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